


Requiescat II: Touches, Changes

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Drama, M/M, Series, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-03-16
Updated: 2005-03-16
Packaged: 2018-11-10 13:25:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11127840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: THIS IS THE VERSION THAT WORKS.





	Requiescat II: Touches, Changes

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

Requiescat II: Touches, Changes

## Requiescat II: Touches, Changes

  
by Blue Champagne  


Disclaimer: I own zipla.

Author's Notes: Ever had the feeling you were at the top of a slippery slope?

Story Notes: Asylum; can't think of any others.

SequelTo: Requiescat

* * *

Requiescat II: Touches Changes  
  
***  
  
"Sir?"  
  
Fraser looked up. "Yes, Turnbull?"  
  
"You'll be staying this evening, won't you?"  
  
Fraser smirked. "That depends. What have you planned?"  
  
Turnbull blushed and looked at the rug, hands behind his back, rocking back and forth a little where he stood in the doorway.   
  
"A small gathering," Turnbull said softly. "I'd initially intended to use the kitchen, knowing your dislike for...ostentation, but the inspector saw...well, she saw me getting a few things ready on my break, and offered the use of the formal dining room."  
  
Fraser's eyebrows went up very briefly. "I see. Very kind of her." Fraser figured the inspector had simply forgotten his birthday. She was the sort of superior who usually sent (or gave) cards or small token gifts, like fancy candies or nice pens, to those currently and formerly under her command on their birthdays, though--as was the usual arrangement in such cases--Turnbull, as her personal assistant, usually handled the actual preparing and mailing of said cards and gifts, requiring only her signature. He wouldn't be surprised if it had slipped her mind--nor if she felt that Fraser, in particular, deserved a bit more special acknowledgement from her than most of her current and past underlings. They were, in a sense, stuck here together, along with Turnbull.  
  
"Yes, I thanked her appropriately. Detective Vecchio will be joining us, as well as Lieutenant Welsh, Miss Vecchio, and...there are others I'm not sure if I'll be able to contact in time, but those are some RSVPs. You needn't worry; I've informed them it's a giftless event." Ray's and Turnbull's gifts had already been presented. Ray's had been a T-shirt he'd said was uniquely Fraser that said "I see dumb people". Fraser had attempted to injure him with the shirt, but Ray had been poised to run already and Turnbull had been laughing too hard to stop him.   
  
"Thank you kindly for remembering that, Turnbull, but a word of advice--you realize that Lieutenant Welsh may be expecting a cake? And that Detective Vecchio may become downright cranky if there isn't one?"  
  
"There will be one, sir. Well..."  
  
"Well...?" Fraser smiled.  
  
"There'll be peach pies. A la mode. Fresh peaches, and homemade ice cream."  
  
Fraser's smile widened. Turnbull knew that candy and cake had been easier to get where he grew up than most sorts of fruit, and real ice cream not much easier; certain of the ingredients--namely cream--being heavy and expensive to ship unscathed by the experience; and keeping milch animals was difficult in his home's dry area. Orchard fruit, aside from occasional apples, had also been a great rarity, and he had a terrific fondness for fruit sweets, far more than for candies and cakes--which had been comparatively plentiful as they might not spoil if you *tried* to spoil them, though they might be less appetizing after a time.   
  
"By the way, is there a particular flavor you'd prefer for the ice cream?"  
  
"Whatever is easiest, Turnbull," Fraser said, and he dropped his gaze to his desk. He felt misty.   
  
Damn it.   
  
But nobody had paid so much attention to his birthday since before his mother died, and he couldn't help it, so he'd simply have--as Ray would put it--to suck it up. He took a deep breath as he listened to Turnbull replying "I think peach ice cream would simply fight the pie, but a vanilla-molasses swirl..."  
  
"Oh, you needn't go to so much ef--"  
  
Turnbull was obviously not listening any more. Excited by his idea, he clapped his hands together once. "Perfect, if it meets with your approval?"  
  
"Approval?" Turnbull was throwing him a birthday party, handmaking the food, and he wanted Fraser's *approval*? "Of course, but--"  
  
"Then I'll leave you to your work--we wouldn't want you to have to linger late over your desk this evening," Turnbull grinned, did one of those spin-on-the-bootheel turns that even Fraser--who'd he'd been told by Ray Vecchio that his pirouettes were prettier than either of Ray's sisters' had been in their ballet class days--didn't know how he did without breaking an ankle or at least falling over, and shut the door behind him as he went.  
  
Alone, Fraser felt a little sob, swallowed it viciously, whipped out his handkerchief and blew his nose, blotted his eyes quickly and tucked it away again, once again the picture of propriety. Though he was still trying to remember when it had come up in conversation with Turnbull just how much he liked fresh peaches. He couldn't have mentioned it more than once or twice, if he couldn't remember it at all. Finally he gave up, knowing that this train of thought would only lead to more maudlin behavior, and turned his thoughts firmly back to his work. After all, they were on duty. Plenty of time later, if he felt like indulging himself in that sort of thing.   
  
"He's a very nice boy."  
  
Fraser's pen flew nearly high enough to hit the office ceiling. "Dad!"  
  
"Sorry. Just wanted to say happy birthday."  
  
"You never were much for that when you were alive."  
  
"Now, now. I never was much for making a ruckus over something everyone has one of every year, but I did send cards and such. And that's what I'm doing now--best wishes and all. Your friend seems to have everything else under control."  
  
"My 'friend' is an interesting way for you to refer to him."  
  
"Well, he's not doing this in his capacity as the receptionist and your commander's secretary--"  
  
"The term these days is 'assistant' or 'clerical assistant'."  
  
"And it's nice that you've made a friend here who's a mountie, and such a devoted one, too. Oh, he needs a bit of work...but he's young. He has potential. Given time..."  
  
"Given time he won't be too much worse than I am."  
  
"Worse?! Son, you're a model of deportment...okay, you're also a model of an ass on occasion, but I don't think that'll be a problem with Turnbull, at least not the same way. He's...working from a different place inside than you are, though he's even more by-the-book than you, at times."  
  
"Well..." Fraser managed, as usual, to ignore all the passing slights in his father's comments, focusing on what he felt like focusing on and forgetting the rest as well as he was able. "You're right, he is working from a different place. Inside."  
  
"He has a bit of a crush on you, you know."  
  
Fraser smirked. A bit of a crush, indeed. "And you don't find that unusual?"  
  
"Unusual? Pshaw. As I said, he's young...maybe a bit younger in the head than by the clock, too. Hero-worship isn't all a bad thing. He'll grow out of that. I'm glad to see you're being more tolerant of him--he'll make a fine officer...with the right encouragement."  
  
"He's been what *I* would call a fine constable for a few years now, and I should've known you'd have an ulterior motive."  
  
"Ulterior motive? I'm just here to wish you a happy birthday, son, and hope that you and your friend--and your commander, for that matter--get out of this office-duty hell and back into the real purpose of the RCMP as soon as possible. All three of you are wasted here."  
  
"Has it taken you this long to figure that out?"  
  
"No, actually. It's pretty obvious why you're all here. Your commander, well, she's a woman, and I'm willing to bet some bigot in Ottawa decided to stick a fine field officer with an administrative job far below her talents. Which explains why she can be such a bi--"  
  
"Dad."  
  
"--big pain. Turnbull...well, maybe someone just didn't know what the hell to do with a man who could make it through Depot as high in his class as he did and then...well...turn out to be so...violently eccentric."  
  
"I can certainly see someone wanting to get him out of sight, yes. Such as the officers who trained and graduated him from Depot. Besides, he really is very good with the minutiae of such duty as this, though he would likely throw everything he had into virtually any duty he was given. His enthusiasm can be...exhilarating." The word he'd been thinking was "exhausting", but he wasn't going to say that to his father. Not about a friend. His father already made too much of a hobby of judging Fraser's friends.  
  
"Indeed, indeed...work in the field would give him more outlet for that enthusiasm. And then there's you, of course..." his father cleared his throat. "You're here for my sake. And I thank you, son, though it wasn't the most brilliant career move."  
  
Fraser sighed. "It doesn't matter, Dad. I'd have done the same thing once I found out what was happening around the building of that dam in any event, though it *was* investigating your murder that led me that far."  
  
"By the way, you made the right choice, coming back here. I'd have hated Russia. Nobody has a neck. How do you get along without a neck?" His father waved an arm in exasperation.  
  
"And I suppose you think that was my biggest criteri--" he lifted his head, but Robert was gone. "Criterion?" he finished softly, mouth quirking in amusement, aiming it at the closet door, before shaking his head and turning back to his work. Forms. His daily forms, at the moment. He usually did them first, but'd felt like giving himself a break today and had put them off 'til last. Happy birthday, Benton. Sigh.  
  
But while he was locating his pen, he could almost taste peaches, and the sensation didn't go away as he returned to work.   
  
"Thank you, Turnbull," he whispered, smiling, as he began to write.  
  
A tiny, unseen sparkle vanished under the office door in the direction Turnbull had gone.  
  
***   
  
Some of the guests had already been and gone, a few not able to stay long enough for much beyond a happy birthday--Turnbull had been unable to reach them until close to the very day of the event, and some only today, since--as he had wished at least some of them to be a surprise--it had involved stealing Fraser's rolodex, then his address book. Getting the book involved actually opening drawers on Fraser's desk and Turnbull'd had just a terrible time forcing himself to it, even though opportunities were rife since Fraser's door had no lock. Small servings of pie on paper plates--he'd made extra pie for just such emergencies, and for sending home with guests--wrapped with plastic wrap had gone with most of them after they'd greeted the surprised--and occasionally tear-fighting, as when Willy, who was now as tall as Fraser and going by Will, showed up--Fraser. Elaine had come by with her partner--just a quick stop, as they were in the cruiser and on patrol--with a small bunch of flowers and a hug.   
  
The singing and well-wishing was accomplished, and the eating and chatting were well under way. Some people--as Huey and Dewey among others, were eating too concentratedly to say much.  
  
Others managed at least a few words. "Mm...you've outdone yourself, Constable," Lieutenant Welsh said, forking in another mouthful of peaches, flaky crust and ice cream. He paused until his mouth was almost clear enough for intelligible speech, and said "This has got to be..." he interrupted himself with another bite.   
  
Turnbull beamed. "I'm so glad you're enjoying it, sir, really."  
  
Thatcher was picking carefully at a much smaller serving. "Yes, it's very tasty, Turnbull. I hope you realize that I'm only having a bite or two--well, maybe a little more than that--only because..."  
  
"Of course, sir, you're female, and generally much lighter than the rest of us. You have to be more careful with the amounts you consume, since women and smaller people burn calories far more economically."  
  
"Short version, they get fat faster," Ray said, sawing off another chunk from the pile on his own plate.  
  
Thatcher gave him a grimace that actually looked more like she was thanking him from saving her from saying it than like she was annoyed, while Turnbull hemmed and hawed. "Well, that's one way of looking at it, but consider, Ray, that the more economically one burns to get the same resulant available energy--as most women do, opposed to most men--the more one has available to call on in situations that require a high level of *endurance*, as opposed to immediate bursts of strength."   
  
"That why women keep winning the Iditarod?" Frannie asked, reaching for Thatcher's plate with a fork. When Thatcher gave her a look, Frannie explained "I'm on a diet, and anything eaten off someone else's plate has no calories."  
  
Thatcher actually grinned and presented the plate, balancing it with her other hand. "Ah. A well-known truism. Help yourself, Miss Vecchio." Frannie extracted a nearly microscopic bite of mixed pastry and ice cream from Thatcher's plate.  
  
Fraser was still sitting at the dining room table in front of the partially-dissected pies and the large dish of ice cream, the confection colored in cream-and-brown swirls; he gave a slice and a scoop to Mort, who had taken time to dress in a dark, comfortable-looking suit before coming to the consulate. "Oh, dear, I'm sorry--" Fraser removed the candle shaped like a "3" from the plate, evidently not having expected it to make it that far; the "9" had fallen out in the pie pan when he made the slice with the pie server.   
  
"Quite all right, my boy. If I were you, I would be more worried about who had taken it into their head to announce my age in that fashion," Mort chortled, accepting his fork and immediately arranging the pie and ice cream into small, bite-size sections containing some of each.   
  
"Oh, I know who did that," Fraser replied darkly, his eyes moving to Ray.  
  
Ray just grinned and waved. "You wanted I should have stuck thirty-nine little candles in the damn thing? You gotta have something to blow out, Fraser, and excess lung capacity or not, that might've had you face-down in your own birthday pie."  
  
"We'll discuss it later," Fraser muttered at him, shooting him a just-you-wait look, almost too fast to catch, before returning to his duties as birthday boy. He quickly turned his attention to Francesca, who had come to slip into the chair beside him and began to natter, sticking the three and the nine under a napkin. "You're quite right, Francesca--women do often win the Iditarod, due to their almost perfect design to withstand those specific extreme conditions. A healthy woman, in well-maintained condition and with an average of thirty pounds of adipose fat above the usual medical "optimum" for more temperate conditions--preferably distributed fairly evenly over her body, with, of course, more at the usual human points of higher concentration--is, if all other things are equal, by far a better candidate to win the race than a man. More men win, purely in terms of counting back over the years, purely because more men enter. And of the women who enter, virtually all at least finish, as opposed to the percentage of men who do so. Endurance, especially in extreme cold or heat, is one area where women physically outstrip men. That's a generalization, of course. As I said, all other conditions would have to be equal, and they almost never are; which is why we must take each individual as he or she comes in terms of any sort of ability. Are you sure you won't have a plate of your own?"  
  
"Me? No, no way--I was a chubby kid, and I'm never going back to that--when you're as small as I am, and you're even a little chubby, you just can't find clothes to fit *anywhere* but at the big lady store, and have you *seen* those clothes? The ones I'd wear I could never afford, and the others--I'd rather wear a sack."  
  
"You are quite the snappy dresser, Miss Vecchio, but I'm sure you'd look charming in anything," Turnbull told her, smiling, having sat down with his own plate to her other side. "Here--" he scooped a little bite of combined goodie from his serving and held it up for her. "No calories."  
  
She smiled at him and opened her mouth; he placed the bite in, and she crunched appreciatively on the crust part, making yum-yum sounds. After swallowing, she said "Thanks. It's really good, Turnbull, I just wish..." she sighed and slumped.  
  
"It's disgusting, isn't it," Thatcher said, standing behind her, finishing off her own small portion. "The way they just act like pigs right in front of us. As though it's the easiest thing in the world for us to refuse food this good--*they* don't have to sacrifice their health, in that area, at least. And even if they do, they don't care, because men always think they look like studs, even if they're, shall we say..."  
  
"...more like the *size* of a bull. Yeah," Frannie said, folding her arms. "But five extra pounds on *us*, and we're 'fat' by their standards. Hell, a *normal*-sized woman is fat by a lot of men's standards, and some of those men are the size of houses. My sister and I have no end of hell with that in our family."  
  
Ray was now sitting, with his plate, on Turnbull's other side. "Maybe you could segregate the dining rooms."  
  
"Very funny, but it's not that bad an idea. Or even segregate the food," Frannie considered, "cook real, good-tasting food for those of us who can't make like total pigs and expect not to turn into one, and food for the people who either don't care if they've got Dunlop's disease--which is most of the men in my family, except, well, you know, the skinny guy--or who can eat it without getting that way, like Mister Metabolism over here," she said, poking Ray in the side. He just grinned at her and took a huge bite of pie and ice cream. She made a face at him.  
  
"Dunlop's disease?" Turnbull wondered.   
  
"Spare tire," Welsh explained, patting his own with what looked like fondness, then going back to his ice cream, the pie on his plate having already gone to service the spare.  
  
"That's one way to interpret it," Ray said, "but the way I heard is that it's when your stomach done lop over your belt."  
  
Several people nearly lost their plates and/or bites before order was restored as the chuckles calmed down.  
  
***  
  
"Can't keep up with you, huh?" Ray said, with a big fake gloat on his face as he moseyed over to Fraser's bench. "You still haven't made your personal best on track time whereas I," he panted, slinging a towel around his neck and pulling his tank top off at the same time in a neat two-handed maneuver, "have beaten mine twice this week."  
  
"I made my...personal best time...at the three mile...when I was twenty-four," Fraser said, in between reps, finished counting in his head, and let the barbell settle to the rack, sitting up like a flipped switch, barely sweating. "I'm unlikely to beat it at thirty-nine. You, on the other hand, have yet to equal your own personal high in the clean-and-jerk."  
  
"That's because I'm not a fucking idiot, Fraser, you can rip your gut out doin' that at my age."  
  
"You're younger than me and I can--"  
  
"You're built like an igloo. I'm built like the Eiffel Tower. Speaking of which, where the hell does Turnbull keep disappearing to? You guys dump the dog, show up all warmed up, you hit the weights, and he vanishes. What's up with that?"  
  
Fraser smirked at him. "You don't look around much when you run on the track, do you, Ray?"  
  
"That's the whole point of running inside. You can go off in your head without getting hit by a car. What's that got to do with..." he paused, as Fraser was pointing with one hand--up, up, up.   
  
Ray looked up. Across the gym, high up in the gymnastics section, on the hanging rings, was a figure that was way the hell too large to have any business performing freestanding handstand pushups and then moving smoothly into an inverted Iron Cross, holding it, holding it, holding--  
  
And then one of the rings shook just a little bit harder than the other and the figure in men's gymnastics whites spasmed, blurred and plummeted, slamming into the port-a-pit on the mats below the rings.   
  
"Damn, I wish he'd quit that," said Phil. Phil Angstrom was a large black man with startlingly green eyes whom Fraser had met at the gym, and with whom he liked to work the free weights--spotting each other and such--both because they were at close to the same strength level, and because Phil was a professor of general physics at Northwestern, which meant they always had something to chat about. He was sitting up from his own bench, finishing "The whole damn place shakes when he falls--I nearly got a bar across my throat once. Will somebody please tell him he's too goddamn big to be messing with gymnastics? Especially the rings?"  
  
"Jesus!" Ray, in between surges of freaking out at the unbelievable feat of strength he'd just seen, was also freaking out at Turnbull's ungraceful head-mashing landing as he ran for the mats where his friend was now lying in a contortion of discomfort.  
  
He skidded to a halt on his knees, taking the massive--he'd never realized how massive; not in terms of size, but of strength density--shoulders gently, and turning the greyish-white-clad body up a bit. "Turnbull? You all right? Sure you should move? That was a hell of a fall."  
  
"Not really," Turnbull said, and Ray was surprised to find that yes, Virginia, Turnbull *did* know what a sardonic tone of voice was, and was even capable of using one. "I fall down quite a bit, if you hadn't noticed. I'm good at it."  
  
"Not like *that*. Christ, I didn't even know you could *do* that. On the rings, I mean. That was incredible."  
  
"What you saw was a series of what would be considered mixed B and one D move in actual gymnastics terms, B being only somewhat more advanced than a simple muscle-up--well, maybe a tap swing--" he looked distant, panting heavily from his exertions and the fall, sweat shining all over him. "I'm too off, in upper-body-to-bodylength ratio, now, to be able to perform like I used to. My handstand-planche-maltese was perfect, at one time..."  
  
"Turnbull's growth spurt, in terms of height, was late," Fraser said, quietly, approaching silently on the mats behind Ray. "He started gymnastics in grade school, and didn't give them up until Depot, where he was simply too large to even consider it."  
  
"I did consider it," Turnbull corrected him. "It was the coach who told me I was...in error in my thinking, if I believed I could actually *compete*, as opposed to simply being able to perform the moves." Turnbull sighed, sitting up and getting out of the pit, joining Ray on the mats because Ray still had his shoulders and was staring hard at him, as if he could make sure there was no head or neck injury just by looking. Turnbull continued "It was plain I wouldn't be able to perform them with the kind of smoothness and agility that the smaller candidates had. All gymnasts, acrobats and such are fairly small--very small, sometimes--and exceedingly muscular. But no matter how strong I am--"  
  
"The...build, the agility for competition won't be there," Ray said sympathetically. "Not compared with guys who just happened to be built to the sport's standards."  
  
"I'm...not within competition parameters, I'm...too big." His voice was small, his eyes down, as though he were saying "too stupid" or "too ugly". "There's just too much of me for me to balance in the right ways."  
  
"Meaning you're the size of an ox and you're going to kill yourself one of these days," Phil said, having followed Fraser. "I just hope you don't land on anybody. Like me."  
  
"I'm sorry, Phil, did I make you lose your grip again?"  
  
"Not this time, fortunately. You going to do those floor exercises?"  
  
"Of course Iii..." his eyes moved to the wide-eyed Ray and he trailed into "...iii'm not. I'm--afraid I may have pulled something in the fall, this time--nothing serious, of course," he added hastily. "Just being cautious."  
  
"Good," Phil said. "I'm not in the mood to deal with knowing you're over there and I'm just waiting for the disaster. I hate to see you do those midair rolls and hit the mat hands-first, roll up perfect and into those jackhammer flips--whatever you gymnast guys call that--and end up crashing into the wall like a puppet with the strings cut. *Again*. I hurt just watching you do the leaps for the far corner of the mat to start that sequence, 'cause I *know* what is *coming*."  
  
Ray was only looking more alarmed as this went on, Turnbull more embarrassed, but Fraser was only smiling in quiet sympathy as Phil pontificated "Turnbull, man, listen to me--I'm older than you; I've done my share of different games, done college entry-level coaching too. I *know* it's rough, but it happens to people all the time in sports--you get too big, or you don't get big enough, or you get hurt just a little too bad, or you're damn good--but not quite damn good enough. I know *that* one personally. I went through undergrad on a football scholarship; never meant to be anything but a pro, and college was just the way to get there; but I just couldn't be flexible enough, fast *and* strong. Tried changing positions, same problem, other way around. Only takes a few decimal points' worth to put you on the wrong side of that line, and you, my friend, are quite a few more inches--hell, maybe feet--longer than what it'd take for a few decimal places."  
  
Turnbull shook his head tiredly, as Fraser held out a towel to him and he reached up to take it, holding it here and there against his face and neck as he said "I'm not trying to *compete*, Phil, this is only--"  
  
"Yes, you are. With yourself. You gotta prove that you can still do it, 'cause it's that important to you, has been from way back, a really big thing about you--and man, you may always be five foot eight on the inside, but your outside is six foot three. I was worse than you, though--being only *just* not good enough, always thinking 'this isn't an absolute, I'm not too big, not too small, all my parts work fine, and I've got the instincts--so if I work it, it's something I can *change*'. It hurts to realize nature *does* put absolute limits that we can't overcome on that, too. Gives us the instincts in the mind, but not the body to use them. Hurts in a relative sense, I mean, 'cause with you, it's more than that--you're gonna get broken. You're just barely young enough to still be trying to do this kind of thing, but you're no way small enough. Your body was lined up perfectly on those freestanding pushups, but plutonium-dense as you may be, even though you ain't built like a chunk--I admit, that part is gymnast, all the way--I saw you starting to tilt; that's why you went into the Cross, trying not to lose it. You're too *long* to keep the balance past a certain point. Fraser here is a lot closer to the right body type, and he's still way too tall. God, I'll never forget when you nearly ripped off a leg wrapping it through one of the bars on the pommel horse. I was sure you'd torn up *everything* in there, I was about to holler for 911 when you waved us you were okay. It took three of us to get you off of there. You could've fucked that leg all to hell."  
  
"I'm *very* good at avoiding injury when I...make a misstep," Turnbull assured him, quietly, letting Ray help him up. "I have almost continual practice. Ray, really. I'm fine." The last sentence was very soft, and he gently disengaged Ray's hands from his arms, then raised his eyebrows significantly at the blond man--as if to remind him of where they were.  
  
"That thing you said," Ray asked, "that you said you could do perfect once? What was it again?"  
  
"Handstand-planche-maltese," Turnbull said, looking down, again, his voice growing quiet again.  
  
"Damn," Phil said, and his voice got a little quieter, too, as his attitude changed. "You were gonna go pro too, weren't you?"  
  
"That was my plan at the time, yes," Turnbull said.  
  
"It's an E skill," Phil said to Ray, "something only the pros are really *expected* to have in their repertoire. But Turnbull--how old, or maybe more importantly how big, were you, when you had that perfect handstand-planche-maltese?"  
  
Turnbull looked up at him. "It doesn't matter. It was a long time ago, I haven't been able to do a remotely acceptable planche for years, and I know what you're going to say, Phil. You've made your point. I'm sorry I interrupted your workout."  
  
"Phil just doesn't want to see you hurt, Turnbull," Fraser said gently, then looked at Phil. "Right, Phil?"  
  
"Yeah," Phil said, his attitude changing even more noticeably. "That's all, man. Didn't mean to come down your throat. But I like you, you're a good guy--and I *know* how you feel, here."  
  
"Thanks for your concern, really--but I assure you, I'm fine. Have you ever known me not to get right up after I crash into the wall like a puppet?"  
  
"No. You always do get right back up. I'm just dreading the day you don't."  
  
"I'm not that stupid. I'll stop before things go that far. And now, if I'm going to skip my floor routine exercises, I think I'll shower. Would you like to come with me and make sure I don't slip and injure myself in there?"  
  
"Hey, this is me backing off," said Phil quietly, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender; he exchanged a look with Fraser, nodded as the latter murmured something, and headed back toward the weight bench area.  
  
Turnbull put his face in the towel and stood there a moment while Ray turned to Fraser. "You know he does this stuff and you don't...you never..."  
  
"It's not my place to tell Turnbull what he can and can't do on his own time, Ray."  
  
"You're his friend, aren't you? You just let him beat himself up like this?"  
  
"Ray." Fraser laid a hand on Ray's shoulder. "I'm finished with my workout, too. If you are as well, we should probably all shower. We can talk later, if you still want to."  
  
"You better believe I'll still want to," Ray muttered, shrugging Fraser's hand off and stomping off to the showers.  
  
Turnbull and Fraser looked at each other. "I'm sorry," Fraser murmured, "but it will take him a bit of time to understand, I'm afraid."  
  
"Sir--Fraser--I...thank *you*, for understanding."  
  
"All too well."   
  
***  
  
"There are mats on the walls, in case you hadn't noticed, Ray," Turnbull said.   
  
"Which means nothin' if you hit 'em with your head and break your neck, or bounce off 'em and hit the floor even harder than the mats--"  
  
"There are mats on the floor, too."  
  
"Not all of it."  
  
"Detective, you can keep this up, or you can accept the inevitable." Turnbull stopped inside Ray's apartment after Dief came in and Fraser closed the door behind them all, and Turnbull's face was a blank, happy-to-be-of-any-service expression. "I'm afraid my choice of offtime activities, so long as they're legal, is not open to your approval or disapproval. If you do not approve of those activities, I'll refrain from discussing them, and you can feel free to ignore them--and do your exercising at a different time or location from mine."  
  
Ray wavered, and his expression crumpled. "Don't go junior officer on me, Turnbull, I don't mean it like--it's just I can't ignore this, and I wouldn't have, if I'd been paying better attention. Payin' good attention to...anything not work, you know, it ain't my best thing, all the time. Then I noticed that I hardly ever saw you when we're at the gym; and up 'til now, when I did see you, you were doin' something typical--the weights or the rope or whatever, you never had the pantaloon things on. I figured you were pumping iron when I wasn't, or using the machines, whatever--I'd've said something before now if..."  
  
"And I would've said something quite similar to what I said previous to this last statement of yours. Are we done now?"  
  
"No!" Ray looked scared and upset, now, having finally dropped the aggressive posture, and allowed the *reason* he was angry to show. "You'll be hurt. That shit is *dangerous*--well, not all of it, but some of what you do is dangerous as hell for you."  
  
"I do what I can, Detective. As do we--"  
  
"Stop calling me that!"  
  
Turnbull raised an eyebrow. "As you wish." That he didn't call Ray *anything* went past nobody. Probably not even Dief.  
  
"Another way of putting it," Fraser said, very softly, from the kitchen, where he was pulling sandwich fixings out of the fridge, "is 'he does what he must'. Wise or not. We all do that. You, me, everyone. He'll do what he must until he doesn't need to do it any more, and then he'll stop. But not before. And you can yell at him and live in fear, or you can accept this about him, the same as you've accepted certain things about me." Fraser's voice was warm and very soft.  
  
"This is between me and Turnbull--"  
  
"On the contrary. I love Turnbull. And you. It's a matter for all of us if you have a serious problem with an activity that he has no intention of stopping; the discord it creates will affect me, too."  
  
"So you pick somebody and take a side."  
  
"No. I offer my opinion, because if the contention over this point continues it will impact majorly on my relationship with both of you. Once I'm done saying what I have the right to say, I'll be quiet. And my opinion is that it's foolish for you to attempt to control Turnbull in this fashion. Do you care for him enough to let him do what he must, even if you don't understand why he has to do it?"  
  
"Frase..." Ray sighed and slumped on the couch. "Of course I do, do *not* make this about whether I trust him or not. You know it, he knows it--and yeah, Turnbull, I know you're still in the room, sorry we're talking over your head but the human mouth over there had to butt in as your amateur lawyer--Fraser, yeah, I trust him. But I can't help being worried about this!"   
  
"No one's saying you don't have reason to be worried, Ray. If I didn't understand so well, I would worry, too. But my fear for him won't help. Turnbull is far past the age of choice. He has the right, and he knows the risks. That being the case...you would never let anyone stop you--now--from doing what you felt you must, not simply because they were worried there might be a mishap."  
  
"I'm *very good* at falling," Turnbull added quietly, laying a hand on Ray's shoulder. "If one's willing to sacrifice one's dignity for one's safety..."  
  
"But why this?" Ray said, looking around and up at him.  
  
Turnbull looked away. "I'm afraid it's very much as Phil said. In my mind, I'll always be the...the young man who could execute a perfect planche and integrate it into a rings routine, to say nothing of the higher-level skills for the other official men's gymnastics events. I don't know how long it will take before I truly realize I'm simply...not. Possibly until I get too old and shoulder-worn to do a muscle-up. But I may never stop trying to get it back until then. Knowing it intellectually doesn't seem to be enough. I can do the handstands...well, long enough, before my joint lineup begins to suffer as I tilt; so before that happens, I *can* still drop smoothly into a maltese, but that planche..." he sighed.  
  
"I still hold myself to the same standards as I did when I was...well, younger; and Turnbull is more than ten years behind me. Give him some time," Fraser recommended. "I suspect that when his annual physical reveals enough that certain tests are run, and he ends up with several RCMP medical specialists trying to find out who is ordering him to abuse his body in such fashion--or even, if his duty posting hasn't changed, how he's managing to accrue such bizarre wear and tear on certain joints while on office duty, he may rethink things." Turnbull gave him a mild glare; Fraser only smirked.   
  
"Perhaps I *will* regret it when I'm fifty, Fraser, but I'm afraid that can't be helped."  
  
"Your choice, of course."  
  
Ray was still distressed. "In that time, he could end up...I mean, forget fifty, he could end up..."  
  
Turnbull sighed. "Yes, I suppose it's possible, but that changes nothing. If you can't accept it, you can't accept it, but you can't persuade me--by any means, in case you were pondering any such--not to do it."  
  
"I wasn't pondering any such," Ray sighed. "What's a planche?"  
  
Unsurprisingly, Fraser answered, bringing them all bottled waters as he came in and sat down next to Ray while Turnbull took the yellow chair. "The gymnast holds the rings with arms straight out and bent down vertically at the elbow, the rest of the body straight out behind him--like a 'plank', which is where the word comes from, in the French. Well, Latin 'planca', originally. The angle cannot be a perfect forty-five degrees from vertical, of course, even for Olympic-level gymnasts; the feet are just slightly higher than the shoulders."  
  
"Turnbull--*shit*. No *wonder*. You'll *never* be able to do that."  
  
"I *did* it," Turnbull countered mildly.  
  
"I've seen those gymnasts at the Olympics--they're not *big* and *tall* like you, Turnbull. They're basically short, bulked-out ectomorphs. Little bitty people with little bitty bones and *tons* of muscle. You're big, your bones are big. Your muscles are dense as hell even for their size, between looking at 'em and looking at what you did today, but there's no way you could do this plank thing--you'd have to cut your legs off at the knees."  
  
"I did it," Turnbull repeated softly. "I did it when I was five feet ten inches."  
  
"That's..." Fraser couldn't finish. "*How*?"  
  
"The usual way. With proper form. Some silent invocation of deity at a few points."  
  
"How long ago was that?" Ray asked softly.  
  
"I don't know. It's not important." Turnbull sighed and continued gazing out the window. Ray was of the opinion Turnbull did know how long ago it was--down to the picosecond--but he didn't pursue it.   
  
Instead, he got up and wandered over to Turnbull, kind of shyly; Turnbull looked up, and Ray leaned against the back of the chair. "Lap?"  
  
Turnbull smiled. "Will we fit?"  
  
"Chair holds you, you hold me--it's all pals."  
  
Turnbull moved around a little, and Ray climbed on, and Turnbull got the rod out of his spine and slid his ass down the seat some, so Ray had enough legs and lap to stabilize himself on, leaning over on him; then Turnbull wrapped Ray up close with his arms. Ray was only about three inches shorter than Turnbull, but since they weren't afraid to get affectionate, that worked fine, the chair being sturdy enough. He was also a good deal lighter than Turnbull, not that that mattered much in this position.  
  
Fraser returned to the kitchen and the sandwich fixings he'd withdrawn from the refrigerator. He seemed pretty intent on shutting up now, so Ray figured this was time for him to make nice with Turnbull.   
  
"I'm just worried about you," he said quietly.  
  
"I worry about you and...and Fraser, every day that he's working with you. Trouble seems to follow you even more assiduously than it does me, and it's usually of a far more injurious nature--let me rephrase; a more all-encompassingly disastrous nature."   
  
"That, I cannot fight you on." Ray sighed and rested his head on the chair back. "He draws it like a magnet."  
  
"*He* draws it like a magnet? I seem to recall your abrupt entrance into the consulate one day--skidding on your knees, entirely out of breath--with his name on your lips. We'd been having a very pleasant conversation just prior to that. He and I, that is."  
  
Ray smirked. "Okay, so sometimes it's me. Or both of us, whatever, but you can't deny when it finds me, it *finds* me. He goes the fuck *after* it."  
  
"Well, yes...but he has a duty." Turnbull smiled.  
  
Ray sighed. "You guys are not normal even for Canadians, even for mounties, and neither is the ice qu--ow!"  
  
"You were saying about Fraser, myself and *inspector* Thatcher?"  
  
"I was saying you're all nutsky. Though at least she has the sense to lose it when you two...well, whatever the hell it is you two have, that makes him see why you kill yourself one way and you see why he kills himself another way--when you do it, *she* at least wishes you'd quit so you could all go home eventually. You know I only call her the ice queen cause she's the boss and you guys are Canadian, right? Ice? Queen? Ice queen?"  
  
Turnbull blinked. "No. I hadn't known that. I assumed you meant it in a...an unflattering light."  
  
"Well, maybe if I'm pissed at her. But usually not. You don't need to flip whenever I say that. It ain't always a jab at her. It's a nickname, like."  
  
"If you say so." Turnbull gave him a look that was somewhere between measuring and just slightly dangerous, then looked away, back out the window.   
  
"You gonna stare out that window 'til Frase gets done with the sandwiches?"  
  
"I believe he's making a soup as well."  
  
"Great, he makes soup from as close to scratch as possible, hasn't he ever heard of *cans*? If I seem like I don't get something that's really, really important to you, I'm sorry. I'm really sorry, just--just let me have a little time, okay? It's easy as hell to get you talking and excited, but it's always about something *else*. Getting to *you* is damn near impossible. If it's going to take me a while of being as close as you'll let me get, then...it's going to take a while for me to understand, okay?"  
  
Turnbull's eyes dropped, and he took a slow breath that couldn't quite be called a sigh. "You're right. I'm sorry. I can't...expect..." this time he did sigh.  
  
"Hey. Hey." Ray raised Turnbull's chin with a finger to look at him. "Don't push it, don't...I hate to see that look when you just don't...know how to say something, or...hell, maybe just don't know how to say it so I won't be mad. Don't strain yourself. I'll be around." He grinned. "I've gotten kinda attached to you. Which is the reason for this whole me bein' mad in the first place thing."  
  
"Ray, I'm twenty-eight. In twenty years of advancing through levels of gymnastic ability, I've *never* been seriously injured at gymnastics practice, even early on. You may have noticed the extra mats and the port-a-pit."  
  
Ray whooshed a sigh. "Yeah, I did." Then he looked back at Turnbull. "You started at eight?"  
  
"Yes. I was quite athletic from the beginning, though I can't say my father approved of my choice of sport."  
  
"Parents. Yeah. My dad didn't approve of too much about me either, for a real long time. I don't know if it's the same, but maybe I have some idea where you're coming from." He rested his head on Turnbull's shoulder. It wasn't easy; he had to squirm down a bit when he did it, and Turnbull squirmed up to make it more comfortable.  
  
"Wait a second--" Ray had a frown of realization. "Are you the one who taught Fraser those crazy acrobatics?"  
  
Turnbull looked guilty, and Ray was about to sigh theatrically, but Fraser said, firmly, "No," right at Ray, coming in with a cookie sheet--Ray didn't have a tray, but he had a cookie sheet--with sandwich-filled plates on it. "Turnbull did teach me the leaps, modified versions of which come in remarkably handy during foot chases over uneven ground, and he helps me keep in practice; my primary knowledge came from my grandparents. My father never took to it, but my grandfather was pleased that I did, though he needed my grandmother's help in spotting me by the time I came along, and became old enough to learn."  
  
"Your granddad was an acrobat?"  
  
"In his youth, for a while. Various sorts of acrobatics--including flying, which is the professional name for a specific type of trapeze work--was the family trade, which is where his itinerant tendencies may have come from. They traveled with the appropriate venues for such acts. However, he grew dreadfully nearsighted in his early teens, which prevented him from joining the family troupe." Fraser smiled, setting out plates and putting the tray aside. "So he was sent away to boarding school instead, which he told me privately he found a great relief. That's probably where he developed a love of books; reading was something he could always do, whether or not he had glasses of the proper prescription at whatever given time. Even if he couldn't see much at all, or his glasses were of the wrong strength and gave him a headache, he could always take them off and hold a book close enough to his face to read if there was light."  
  
"Oh. Yeah, I get that, all right."  
  
"Yes. Proper glasses weren't easy to get in the lower north at the time--it was all called 'the Northwest Territories' on the maps, then, for the more part--and so he was fond of reading. That was considered a skill in itself, at the time and place--now, untangle, both of you; there's no need for Turnbull sweeping unnecessary crumbs, which he will the minute either of us turn our backs, Ray--and come to the coffee table at least, if you won't eat at the dining table."  
  
"You brought it in here." Ray grinned, but gave Turnbull a smacking kiss and got out of his lap, folding up on the floor on the padding of a couch cushion Fraser handed him. Turnbull scooted the yellow chair in.  
  
"We'll have to wait a bit for the soup," Fraser said. "It has to simmer properly."  
  
"So we have sandwiches and then soup. Can't eat more than one thing at a time anyway. Water's good. Thanks for the quick dinner, Frase."   
  
"Yes, ss--Fraser, thank you. Mm, real Swiss cheese."  
  
Ray, with a bit of monetary supplementation from both Fraser and Turnbull, had taken to stocking his kitchen with Fraser's suggested bakery breads and other sandwich items. Fraser had settled on said items by a little use of his powers of observation and making a subsequent list of preferred ingredients for each of them; he then made meal-caliber sandwiches to order for his turns cooking--they all liked a good sandwich. While Fraser would never be what you could call a great cook, his homemade soups were outstanding for quick-made, rather than long-simmered, and, according to him, quite healthful. And, like all three of them--when Ray bothered--Fraser was pretty good with breakfast food.   
  
If Fraser hadn't insisted, Turnbull would have cheerfully done all the cooking, and while that would have tasted marvelous, it would also have gotten them all, with the possible exception of Turnbull, fat, according to Fraser. Turnbull loved to cook, liked to eat, and he loved to see people enjoy his cooking. And he was a very good cook. All of which, according to a firm Fraser and a disappointed Ray, was a recipe for disaster where Ray and Fraser's waistlines were concerned.   
  
After the sandwiches had been consumed and the soup was finished cooking, Ray volunteered "I got us something," from where he was now cleaning up the meager mess of the sandwich fixings in the kitchen, over the noise of the local newsbreak on the TV.  
  
"For dessert?" Turnbull wondered, after swallowing his current mouthful of soup, then raising the mug to his lips again.  
  
"Nah, bigger, a surprise. I'll show you when I get done with the soup stuff. Fraser, this keep?"  
  
"Yes, it'll do quite well for lunch tomorrow; go ahead and save it."  
  
"Dief wants some."  
  
"Give him just a taste--no more, or it'll upset his stomach. There's too much tomato."  
  
"Right. Here you go, guy, so you don't feel left out, but you don't want sour stomach. Or the toots. We make you go outside...there."  
  
"What did you get us?" Turnbull insisted, lowering the volume on the TV.  
  
"It's a *surprise*," Ray grinned at Turnbull's excited, impatient squirming. "Finish your soup, and I'll show you."   
  
Turnbull's soup was gone in a millisecond and he took the chuckling Fraser's mug with him on the way into the kitchen, where he gave them to Ray, who rolled his eyes and put them in the sink with the suds water. Sighing exaggeratedly, Ray said "Okay, okay. Schist. C'mon, it's in the bedroom. Fraser, you too."  
  
Fraser, smiling, got up and came along.   
  
When Ray opened the bedroom door, both mounties just stood there blinking a moment.  
  
"I know it's a little big for the room, but not for, um, us," Ray pointed out, covering his trepidation with bravado. If one carried their current situation to its next logical stage, the king-sized bed was hardly a shock, but he still felt a quivering inside--what would they think? Would it scare one of them into thinking twice about the whole thing when it was just stuck in his face like this? Should he have talked about it with them first? If either or both of them fled like deer at the sight of this thing, he was never going to be able to sleep in it.  
  
"It's...big," Turnbull managed.  
  
"Very big," Fraser added. "It must have cost quite a bit, Ray. If you got it because of us, you should have let us--"  
  
"I wanted it to be a surprise. I was planning on a new bed anyway, a better one; like I said, my crappy mattress became obvious when all our feet and my ass went on strike a couple weeks ago. I've still got the old one in storage; since you're used to sleeping on that cot from hell, Frase, I was gonna keep it for you in case you wanted it for a real apartment, no reason you can't have one, you know--unless you got a better use for it, Turnbull, you ever gonna tell us why we've never been to your place? I--"  
  
Fraser grabbed him and kissed him to shut up the nervous babbling; Turnbull began giggling softly at Ray's startled "mmph". Ray was still babbling inside his head, though now he was thinking how, when the realization that he'd fallen in love with a giggler finally really hit him, he'd been a bit consternated; but eventually he'd decided that it would make a nice contrast to the cheerful but un-laughter-prone Fraser, and a great contrast to Stella, who hadn't been much of a giggler even as a teenager, and had tended to dry chuckles as an adult.   
  
"I know it's kinda forward," Ray said softly, when Fraser finally let go of his mouth.  
  
"Hardly," Fraser snorted.   
  
"It's not as though we haven't been obvious with each other about there being three of us involved here," Turnbull added, reaching to feather out Ray's hair spikes nicely, with little caressing motions thrown in.   
  
"I just thought it'd be nice if we could all sleep...you know...every now and then..."  
  
"It would be. Will be. Though we may have to have separate covers, because you'll steal them all if given the chance," Turnbull reminded him. "And const--Fraser will probably want the outside edge, so he won't batter either of us to death with his heels trying to swing off his cot in his sleep if he needs to, ahm, go, in the middle of the night."   
  
They filed into the room. Fraser went first, kind of sidling around the edge. "Ray, how did you get this in here?"  
  
"I didn't. I had the three guys from the bed store I went to get it in here, and they didn't have much fun doing it, but they were gettin' paid to bust themselves, and we wouldn't've been."  
  
"You've managed rather cleverly with the furnishings," Turnbull said. "We can all fit inside and still reach the closet, the dresser...um, Ray..."  
  
"It's the dresser from when I was married. Had it in storage, that's where my other bed is now. That's why the paint's still barely a little tacky--" he held a hand out as Turnbull moved right next to the dresser, "I wouldn't touch it--the color won't come off, but the smell might still."  
  
Fraser sat down on the bed, testing it, and looked up at Ray. He said softly "I suppose part of the dresser is empty?"  
  
"Um, yeah. I um, the closet...there's some room in there, too. I mean, it's not like you guys are moving in or anything, but you oughta have some room. For a few things at least."  
  
"I take it there've been similar alterations in the bathroom." Fraser's voice was warm, belying the dry, Fraserlike quality of the words.  
  
"Yeah, but you guys are both pretty self-contained, except you and that big-ass razor stropper, Frase, and there's a hook to hang it on the wall by the mirror now. And there's a shaving mirror in the shower for Turnbull. Other'n that, you guys really only needed under-sink room for your shaving kits; you're both pretty self-contained. *I* need room like a fashion model, practically."  
  
Turnbull was gazing at Ray, standing next to the double-wide, slightly taller than waist-high dresser. His face was shining. "You put in a shaving mirror for me?"  
  
"You get all cut up when you shave in there without one. This is one of those kinds that won't mist up on you, though I got no idea how the hell they make 'em do that. It could give us all cancer or something."  
  
Suddenly he was converged upon by two Ray-seeking mounties, getting kissed wherever the two of them could find skin that wasn't getting kissed by the other set of lips in on the project. Ray began laughing and spluttering "Hey! Spit! Ick!"  
  
Fraser paused long enough to say "It's past thoughtful of you, Ray, all this--but we'll have to talk about the cost of that bed. You shouldn't have to pay for it all yourself."  
  
"You're very....very kind," was all Turnbull could manage, as he finally wrapped himself like a liana around Ray, managing to hide his face in Ray's neck.  
  
Fraser held them from the other side, rocking them both a little. "It *is* sweet, Ray. Thank you. It..." he had to pause, then finished in a whisper "...means a lot, to realize it...this, we...mean this much to you. This much trouble. Not that it's--hell." Fraser had to bend his head for a moment, too.  
  
Ray choked a laugh. "Yeah, it was some trouble, and I was fuckin' happy to go to it, it was the good good kind of trouble. I'm so fucking, fucking relieved. I was afraid I was pushing. That at least one of you would think so, at least, I mean, and I'd've died, I swear..."  
  
"I'd say neither of us is at all displeased," Fraser said, and kissed his mouth softly. "Turnbull?" he then wondered quietly, as the bigger man still didn't take his face out of Ray's neck.  
  
"His face is wet," Ray said, in an "aw, widdle sweetie" tone of voice, but without any mockery in it; and he wriggled a bit to get his arms around Turnbull. Turnbull squeezed Ray tight enough to bring up a lung, with one arm, while sliding the other around Fraser, who was stroking Turnbull's back comfortingly. With his free hand, Fraser reached over and snagged a Kleenex from the nighttable, pressing it to the dampness he could see leaking around the edge of Turnbull's face at Ray's collarbone.  
  
Turnbull sniffed a big sniff and took the Kleenex, leaning away from Ray enough to let go of them both and use the tissue to wipe up. "Thank you for the mirror," he said, in an I'm-still-too-teary-to-talk-right whisper. "And...and making room."  
  
Ray kissed his cheek, then turned away smiling as Turnbull curled up on himself to get control. "Okay, since I live here, I get the three drawers on the right. Each of you gets one of the other three drawers, and you get to fight over the drawer left. If I was you, I'd use it for stuff like neatsfoot oil and bootlaces, things you both use, that are the same size if size matters, and stuff."  
  
"I was about to suggest that very thing," Fraser smiled.  
  
"The closet's a little more complicated," Ray said, doing a diving roll across the bed to get to said closet without having to climb over Fraser. "I managed to sort my shit down to half the space, but there isn't any way to make a clear demarcation. If my stuff gets in your stuff, you'll have to either move it or live with it, and I suggest you put your dress boots in the front closet; there's room in it, 'cause I keep all my shoes and boots in here. When I gotta wear serious galoshes and snow shit, it sits by the door on newspapers. In the summer, I store 'em. Waders and stuff, if we're planning a camping trip or something, go in the storage closet, door the other side of the kitchenette, remember? From the day we went to the park in our bandages."  
  
"That sounds quite workable," Fraser said, and Turnbull nodded real fast, making a little affirmative squeaky noise, then blowing his nose.   
  
Ray stopped fooling in the closet and sat on the bed. "I also moved all the stuff in the linen closet to the top half of the shelves, 'cause there really wasn't that much in there anyway. There's an extra set of sheets for the new bed here, too. But if you guys got anything else you wanna keep here and no place to put it, there's, there's some room in there, just so you know. And if there's anything else you wanna do, like a chair you like or if you wanna move something around in the front room, or, like whatever, I am really, really freaking out big time here, I just thought I better say that, because I might say something really crazy, and I want you to know that I'm not entirely in my right mind right now. Because this is a big deal, even though you're not even moving in for God's sake, I'm just making some room, here, it's still a big deal to me. I'm acting like it's not, but it is, and I don't really know what'd make you guys more comfortable, so I'm just going to go ahead and make a huge dweeb of myself right up front and get it over with, I think, 'cause there isn't any point--"  
  
"Ray. Ray. Ray. Ray. *Ray*." Fraser finally leaned over and made a long arm, and sealed a warm, gentle hand securely over Ray's mouth. "In case you hadn't noticed, Turnbull and I are freaking out rather a lot ourselves. Don't feel like you're the only one this is...is significant to."  
  
Turnbull nodded and squeaked, taking the fresh Kleenex Fraser released Ray's face to pass him.   
  
"So," Ray said quietly, playing with a cabled seam on the navy blue bedspread, "you guys wanna...go around to your places and pick up some extra stuff? Just enough to sleep over tonight, maybe, y'know, break the bed in--if you want, I'm not pushing or anything, you don't have to--"  
  
"I do think I'd like to pick a few things up if I'm staying over tonight, yes," Fraser cut in. "Thank you, Ray. Turnbull? Shall we swing by your apartment, too?"  
  
Turnbull's eyes were huge and almost colorless, slightly veined with red as he nodded wordlessly, then licked his lips and said "I'll just run up and...grab a few things. You could drop me, then go to the consulate, and pick me up on your way back."  
  
Ray looked at him speculatively a moment; the consulate was actually on the way to the area where he knew Turnbull's apartment was.   
  
Then he nodded firmly. "Sure. We'll do that."  
  
***  
  
Turnbull glanced around rapidly at his studio, thinking, what do I need, what should I bring, what does he expect-- what do *they*-- "Oh, *hell*--"   
  
He stumbled across the room to his altar and dropped to the cushion in front of it, fumbled for the lighter he kept next to a star-enameled box, and lit the candle. It was a taper candle, in a holder that was actually the centerpiece of the altar; it was set at the back center. A stark-lined figure, almost suggested rather than detailed, stood with arms folded over chest. It was cast in a grey resin meant to resemble basalt. A pair of large, feathery wings folded, half-closed, the tips down and meeting in front, around the figure, which had no face; and the head was shadowed by what was meant to be either a hood or hair that reached the shoulders. What could have been a robe, a skirt, or only a robe-suggesting base emerged from below the wings, extending down to the old wooden coffee table Turnbull used as an altar. Even the gender of the figure was indeterminate.   
  
Turnbull had chosen it for just those characteristics.  
  
As the flame of the candle--held at the figure's back, between the wings--lit, Turnbull closed his eyes and chanted softly to himself. "Changes, changes, changes, changes, everything she touches, changes. Changes everything she touches. Everything she touches changes. Changes everything she touches. Everything she touches changes..."  
  
It was one of his favorite calming chants, and soon he was able to open his eyes. "I don't know what to do. Ray's made room in his house for me, just like he has for...for Fraser. He wants...he wants more. They want more. Can I do this? Can I get this close and still be...safe? What if...what if I lose control? What if I pollute them?"  
  
*What do you think*  
  
"I don't know. I know what I *want*--I want to try. I want to go back tonight and sleep there, with them both, but we both know that what I want and what I can have are not the same. I want what they're offering me, even though I know how it would have to end if I didn't stop it before it got that far. They just don't realize that they don't want me to take what they're offering."  
  
*You're going to try* *To keep enough of you separate*  
  
"Yes. I am. I shouldn't, I should...should put some kind of stop to this, I'd counted on them to do it, and they're just not...stopping, and now it's too late to do it without making a gigantic fuss of it. I can't let them get too close to me, and I can't violate what they are. But they're not *stopping* it!"  
  
*Then if you want it stopped, you will have to do it* *Fuss or no* *Or find a way to avoid fuss* *But you won't try tonight* "No, you're right, I won't. I'm going to...to go back with them, and put my boots in Ray's front closet, and some spare laces in the top drawer of the dresser...and not think about what I ought to be thinking about. You'll be with me?"  
  
*Always*   
  
He sighed. "I'll...I'll just get Heathcliff and a few things...I love you..."  
  
*I know*  
  
He sighed, gathering himself, and finally put the candle out.   
  
In a few moments, he did a brief protection ritual, based on a Hermetic ritual but modified for his particular universal viewpoint, that invoked the directions and elements--he wasn't sure if it could protect him from dangers he himself at least partially let in, but it couldn't hurt. Then, quickly, using a small piece of felt and his well-honed sewing skills, he made a packet containing earth smoke, sage, rosemary, St. John's, powdered gum Arabic, vervain, valerian, and cedar, the last both for its purifying qualities (among other things) and to help cover the smell of some of the other herbs. He tucked it into his pocket, but he didn't know how much good it could possibly do him after he took his pants off and got in bed with Fraser and Ray. Perhaps tucked under his pillow...he'd tell Fraser, who would certainly smell it--and probably be able to identify all the ingredients anyway--that it was a bit of folk magic, a good-luck sachet, a little affectation of his. That was true enough to do the job, and Fraser would probably assume it was for the new bed and circumstances more than anything else, which was also close to the whole truth. It wasn't as though either of them would care that he was a witch, though they might be surprised--there just wasn't any need to go into such detail, as far as he could see, and it might end up with him letting on too much about what the packet was really for. Or why he didn't want them in his apartment, and related subjects...it wasn't his altar he didn't want them seeing, he didn't think they'd care about that, it was just...just...  
  
Anything. Everything.  
  
Gods, he loved them so.  
  
He'd burned a bit of the earth smoke while he sewed and chanted another protective chant to help insulate him. And it was a good thing he could sew fast, because just as he was emerging from the front door of his building, carrying a small daypack-type backpack and one of his dress uniforms in a garment bag, the GTO was pulling up again.  
  
***   
  
"Why you think he doesn't want us up there?" Ray wondered, as the car pulled away from Turnbull's building.   
  
"It's as you said; he's not someone who...parades himself. He's generous with sharing his enthusiasms, but with himself..."  
  
"So...some people are just like that?"  
  
"Yes, some people are, Ray."  
  
"He knew I'd been hurt. He could tell that, just by looking at me, the way I acted, before he even knew me that well. I think that means he has been too. Pretty bad."   
  
"That would certainly be one reason for his protection of his privacy in some areas."  
  
"You're just not gonna get bent outta shape about this at all, are you? I mean, you're pretty sure you're in love with the guy, or at least think you could be; you've never seen his place; he goes to obvious lengths to keep you away from it; and you're just not gonna let anybody see you sweat?"  
  
"Ray..." Fraser sighed. "I think part of loving someone--which is something I thought I knew and then found I didn't, and had to learn the hard way--is being able to accept who they are. What they *can* give you, what they *can* be...and what they can't. If they don't lie to you, and you know up front that this person is...private...even closed off, whatever--then, you have only yourself to blame if you decide you're too impatient to tolerate it. At that point, you decide if it's worth it to you to wait for them to give what they can, when they can. If it isn't, you have the option of leaving the relationship. Or changing it, if they'll consider that. But you *never* have the option of demanding revelations they don't want to make, no matter what you think they may 'owe' you."  
  
Ray sighed. "I guess you're right. It's...when you put it like that...it's like anything else, where you go in warned. If you want to hang onto your grownup status, that is. You can't... *be* warned, go in with full knowledge, and then throw a hissy fit when exactly what you were *told* would happen, happens. Only kids, people who have to live it to learn it, who can't learn from example or from warning, get that privilege."  
  
"That's a rather broader way of looking at it, but yes, quite so. Entering into a closer relationship with someone would fall under that heading, if there is...warning, warning necessary, and to be had. Turnbull has never said *outright* that he would be difficult to know, but he has very blatantly, in different ways, made sure we know that he might be; he hasn't contradicted us when *we've* said things to that effect; and he's let us know that he will not necessarily be offering any explanations for that behavior. It's simply up to us to decide if that's something we can tolerate."  
  
"Most people...the kind of thing this is turning into, most people wouldn't. Tolerate it, that is."  
  
"That may be what he's counting on, Ray."  
  
"Just what I was thinking, Watson," Ray sighed. "But he said he loves us, and I for one totally believe that."  
  
"I believe it, too."  
  
There was quiet a while, and then Ray turned in to pull up to the consulate.  
  
"He loves us, but for some reason, he thinks he can't have us," Ray finished, finally. "And when 'it' happens, whatever exactly he's expecting...he's making sure he isn't totally destroyed by it."  
  
"That would be my best hypothesis as well," Fraser said, very softly. "I know that if...say, if I felt that you would leave me, if you ever knew me too well...but you know me, as well as anyone ever has, possibly better than anyone ever has--so that isn't a fear I have. But if I had it, I'd be acting *exactly* like he is."  
  
Ray watched him a moment, then said "Yeah...but you don't think that's it, in his case. Maybe kinda. I mean, it looks like it. But...it's not, not...quite. Or not all. You don't, do you."  
  
Fraser shook his head slowly, staring out the windshield. "Neither do you, Ray."  
  
Ray gazed at him a moment, then sighed and looked out the windshield, too. "Nope. Neither do I. Get your stuff, I wanna collect the big guy and get back before the mutt figures out how to get the fridge open."  
  
***  
  
"There," Fraser said, finishing with his spare uniform. "Neat and tidy."  
  
"Very much so. We'll have no trouble at all, I think, distinguishing our things," Turnbull said. "Yours and mine, I mean. Ray's go without saying."  
  
"True, but there's the additional help of all your things smelling like herbs and flowers and such, as well as the neatsfoot oil and wool cleaner," Fraser added offhandedly, though Turnbull gulped.   
  
Ray was out in the front room, getting Dief situated with a permanent water bowl and other such, explaining to him where his things were to go, not that everyone didn't know Dief would put his things wherever the hell he felt like. Turnbull, without a ready comeback, said "I...hope it isn't disturbing to you, sir."  
  
"Disturbing? On the contrary. It's...rather like a white-noise generator for my nose. I'd far rather smell your herbs than the usual smells of the city, though Ray's apartment and his smells are far more pleasant than general city smells, naturally--partly in that I associate them with Ray." He smiled. "And the herb smells, some of them, with you."  
  
Turnbull blinked. "I...can you smell them at work?"  
  
"Yes, sometimes. Since they're very pure versions of the smells, though mixed with other herb scents at times, I've assumed you work with herbs at home, gardening, or that you carry sachets. Like the one you have now. Does it have a purpose? I don't think I've smelled fumitory herb on you before."  
  
"Fumi--oh, earth smoke. It's...just a silly hobby of mine...well. That's not quite true." That was a blatant lie, and Turnbull couldn't do that, he just couldn't. "I'm partial to using herbs in their...folk applications, sometimes. In..." spirit bags? Magickal blends? Maybe something more general, sachets would work fine. "--in homemade sachets and toiletries. I do hope my little herb bag isn't too overwhelming, I know how sensitive your nose can be..."  
  
"It smells fine, Turnbull. I noticed you sweetened the smell with gum Arabic--powdered, I think, and with cedar, and...rosemary. I'm very fond of rosemary--it's floral and pleasant, without being too sweet. Ray has an oatmeal soap he likes that's scented with rosemary."  
  
"I've smelled it. It *is* nice." Turnbull was sighing with relief inside. Fraser didn't seem to think his herb bundle was much to remark on.  
  
"So..." Fraser slid around the corner of the bed gracefully--he was always so graceful, he seemed to just breathe that way, and Turnbull had to work so hard at it in gym practice--and sat down with him, putting an arm around him and leaning over to kiss his cheek, just in front of his ear. "Is there any..." he kissed Turnbull again, this time just below the ear. "...particular significance to the herbs you chose?"  
  
"Um...for the...new situation. Earth smoke is grounding and purifying, and..." Fraser was nuzzling around on him. Turnbull had a weakness for being nuzzled, especially by someone he utterly adored. "...and so is the Arabic gum, and...and vervain is protective, as is valerian..."  
  
"Good choices all," Fraser said, and he seemed to have lost interest in the question, which was good, because if Turnbull had had to go on much more it might become apparent that the protection was for Turnbull, not the situation in general, and he might have to mention the willpower herbs and such, which wouldn't do at all...  
  
"That feels...very nice..." he breathed, as Fraser's other hand came up and began to stroke his chest softly, in slow, soothing circles, as he continued to nuzzle and kiss gently, moving up to Turnbull's ear, and then his temple...  
  
"It looks very nice, too," Ray's voice came quietly from the doorway; they'd both heard him approach, so they didn't jump. Turnbull felt Fraser smiling.   
  
"I think Fraser is glad you think so," Turnbull said, finding himself smiling, too, finally. "He's smiling."  
  
"That makes three of us, then." Ray came over to the bed and crawled across to them, sliding a hand up each of their backs. "Hey, we finally got room for all three of us that isn't a hardwood floor," he pointed out, grinning. "Wanna see what we can maybe do with it?"  
  
"That sounds...oh..." Turnbull found himself on his back as Fraser very gently dumped him there, starting to unbutton the bigger man's flannel shirt and continuing to kiss on him, over more area as more skin was revealed.   
  
"Fraser...oh, my...we're ignoring Ray..."  
  
"No you aren't," Ray said, "I'm willing to bet neither of you have forgotten for a second that I'm here." He was lounging on his front across the bed, chin propped in one hand, grinning.  
  
Fraser reached out and snagged Ray's jeans waistband, tugging at it with one finger, before going back to what his hands were presently doing, which was divesting Turnbull of his garments. Turnbull started in on Fraser's. "I think he'd like you to take those off."  
  
Fraser made an "Mm-hmm," into Turnbull's shoulder, which he then proceeded to lick. Turnbull couldn't help a whimper. Fraser's tongue was powerful in a *lot* of ways.  
  
"Hey, you want me naked, I'm naked," Ray chuckled, and pulled his shirt off over his head, throwing it to land somewhere near the door, and then rolling over on his back to unfasten his jeans. He pulled them down and off along with his underwear and socks--he was half-hard, Turnbull noticed, and made a soft sound of appreciation of the sight of Ray in general, all smooth golden skin in the light from the bedtable lamps, crawling over to pull the spread and blankets down; the sheets were a paler blue, he noticed. Looked like heavy cotton from here, and when his hand passed over a turned-down portion as he arched under Fraser's mouth, it felt like it too, soft, thick. "Mm..."   
  
Fraser was in the floor getting Turnbull's boots and socks off, but unlike Ray, he paused, giving some order to the clothes he'd removed and setting them on the dresser before turning again, to stop still with a sudden inhalation. Ray, by that point, was lounging on the pillow up by the head of the bed, Turnbull knew; he'd seen, before Fraser slid down his body to get to his boots, and the fact that he'd carried Turnbull's jeans and shorts with him had made Turnbull moan and his eyes had slid helplessly closed. He was lying on his back with his feet on the floor, aroused and flushed, one hand resting on his stomach, the other outstretched toward Ray, though he couldn't reach him.  
  
"You are so very lovely," Fraser whispered, and Turnbull slitted his eyes open to see Fraser looking at him, then turning his eyes up and over to Ray. "And together, you...I can't even..." he shook his head, red lips pressing together in mute expression of disbelief. Fraser, speechless.  
  
"Thanks from the cheap seats," Ray said, and the grin in his voice made Turnbull smile; he lifted his head to look at Ray, and the gentleness in his eyes almost took Turnbull's breath as well as Fraser's, "but we'd like to see a little more of the loveliest guy in the room--wouldn't we, Turnbull?"  
  
"Definitely," Turnbull managed, sitting up all the way and fumbling determinedly at Fraser's jeans fastenings. Nothing he knew, nothing that was smart, nothing that, everywhere and everywhen else, made *perfect sense*, could survive when he was alone with these two men like this, and at this moment he couldn't even bring himself to care.  
  
Though he was brought up a little short--taking care not to let it show--when Fraser tossed Ray the little felt bag Turnbull had sewn. "Turnbull made a little protective packet for the new bed. Or the new situation in general. Relatively new, at least. Protective herbs--apparently the folklore of herbs is a pastime of his."  
  
Turnbull didn't say anything. Everything Fraser had said was, technically, quite true.   
  
"Hm." Ray sniffed it. "Kinda powerful. How about we keep it over here on the nighttable?" He set it on the table. "Where Turnbull can sleep by it."  
  
"Sounds good," Turnbull managed to say without any tension in his tone. Under the circumstances, that wasn't difficult; he was just getting Fraser to step out of his hiking boots, and his sweater and t-shirt were already off courtesy of Fraser's own efforts. The sweater, the one Turnbull had made him for his birthday and which Fraser had been handwashing and wearing for at least a few hours every day, was neatly folded, on top of the only half-folded t-shirt, on the dresser; presumably he was using the t-shirt to protect the sweater in case of residual paint smell. Turnbull had been about to tell Fraser that he really needn't wear it so often just to make Turnbull realize he appreciated it when he'd spied Fraser one evening, wearing the sweater as he walked down the hall toward his room, running one hand, slowly and thoroughly, up and down the opposite sleeve. Affer he'd gotten done being thoroughly aroused and switched his brain back on, he'd decided that it must be that Fraser liked the way the heavy silk in the yarn felt. Well, if it was that...Turnbull had smiled and kept his mouth shut.   
  
Fraser caught his arm and pulled him up again, plastering them together skin to skin, kissing him, deep and hungry. Turnbull forgot everything and groaned low, kissing back and wrapping his arms around the other man, easily giving way when Fraser gently pushed and guided him down to the bed, helping get his long form on--imagine, a bed more than big enough for him--he didn't feel one bit crowded, even with two other grown men on it. Even allowing for the fact he'd gladly have had both these particular men right smack on top of him at once.  
  
*Two* other grown men, yes--Ray was to his right, and he slid a hand in that direction, sightlessly, as Fraser had him enmeshed in a deep kiss, and he felt the hand caught in two elegant ones and brought to a pair of warm, slightly chapped lips, then his knuckles being licked and lightly gnawed at.   
  
Fraser managed to come out of his fugue, turning his head a little, trying to stop humping Turnbull so assiduously. "Ray--"  
  
"Do NOT stop what you're doing," Ray said, his voice both emphatic and unsteady. "Don't. Don't stop. I am. I am just. Oh God. Don't stop."  
  
"You...want to just..."  
  
"Watch for a while, yes, I do, a lot, please, please, please, okay?"  
  
"Ah...okay, but if you should--"  
  
"I'll let you know, I'll let you know, now don't *stop*!"  
  
"Well..." Fraser's sense of fairness was clearly suffering, and he managed to slide over, dragging their erections between their bodies in a way that just about made Turnbull scream as his hand tightened on the one of Ray's he still had, and then Fraser was kissing him again, but this time lying to his side, where they could rub close and even hump a little if they put some effort into rolling up that far, but weren't going to be coming in about ten seconds, which was where they'd seemed headed a bit ago.   
  
Ray moaned, and it occurred vaguely to Turnbull that Ray could also see more of the two of them this way.  
  
He wondered why he didn't feel exposed. Well, he did, but not in a way that made him want to cover up. He had always felt at least somewhat awkward before...before this, before now, during sex, especially the initial stages, and he'd thought it must be worse if there were two other people--but it hadn't been, that time in the shower, and it hadn't been, during the times since when they'd been together and sort of randomly kissing and touching, and obviously flustered and aroused, but it hadn't gone beyond that--not that that made a difference to Turnbull; he'd usually still have felt quite horribly exposed--and he didn't now.  
  
It wasn't even important, he decided, as he felt Fraser sliding a hand down his arm to cover Ray's and his as well, the three of them locking fingers together to keep them from having to pay overmuch attention to the grip to keep it strong.  
  
Fraser's skin felt like silk, far more than that sweater, in Turnbull's opinion. And his hair...thick, soft, it even *felt* glossy. The hand Ray had was autonomically alternating between groping for more of Ray and squeezing tight the portion it already had; his other was sliding all over Fraser, partly in pleasure at the feel of him, partly to give Fraser pleasure at the touch, and partly in sheer amazement--Ray was right, some maintenance angel up in heaven was probably still skulking around hoping no-one'd noticed they'd lost somebody before the trapdoor finally got shut again when they'd taken the trash out or whatever. Fraser exercised since coming to Chicago, but he hadn't until then. What he was, he'd simply been born. He was like no one else Turnbull had ever seen. And he had Ray, who was also like no one else Turnbull had ever seen.  
  
And he wanted *Turnbull*.   
  
Why?  
  
Whyever it was, he wanted him a lot, judging by the sounds of things, the feel of them, and--oh, God--that wasn't all them, the sounds and feel, some was Ray, and Ray wasn't just watching, he was still holding their hands, but his other was busy too, and it wasn't Turnbull or Fraser it was busy on. Eyes of various mixes of grey and blue stared into each other for a moment as their latest kiss broke, and they realized they hadn't known just how long it had been going on, but--  
  
They both looked over; Ray's eyes were closed, he was clinging to their hands and oh my Lord--he opened his eyes, his rhythm not slowing as he pumped himself, and he gazed back at them, eyes deep and smoking, as they moved on each other, and then Ray's jaw clenched up and he shook, hard, once, twice, and he was coming, hard, with noises wrenched up from the gut--not letting go of them, though, still hanging on. Fraser was saying "*Ray*" in a dark brown voice, trembling. And Ray convulsed again, again, once more...Turnbull couldn't've stopped watching if he'd been struck blind, and he wondered if he might be. Were people allowed to see anything so incredible? So beautiful?  
  
"Oh," Ray panted, and his spasm-wracked body slumped, and "God," he finished, and he had to let go of them to grab the Kleenex on the nightstand before he made a mess of the new sheets, which he had somehow managed to avoid doing, even with only one hand.  
  
Turnbull wondered what it would be like to have their clever fingers. Either of their various sets of clever fingers.  
  
"You guys," he panted, mopping enough to save the sheets, "okay?"  
  
"Okay," Fraser managed, his voice low and hoarse, panting. "But--"  
  
"Yeah. Turnbull," Ray said, and crawled over to them, kissed Fraser, deep and long, then Turnbull, and finished "You feel like doin' a friend a favor?"  
  
***  
  
Fraser's expression was beyond describing, beyond anything Turnbull had ever seen on him; his eyes were huge, not stretched wide like a deer in headlights, but wet and wide, his mouth open and lips shining; he was panting, still, with occasional soft moans--Turnbull didn't think he was even aware he was making them; they were hardly audible in the noise Turnbull and Ray were making. Fraser's hips moved, his lower belly muscles contracting helplessly in a deep, slow rhythm, his cock flushed and shiny, so shiny, the skin looked so *delicate*, so...needy, somehow, of touching, holding, *protecting*. He wasn't even as hard as he could get; his foreskin was ample and covered a little more than was usual of the roundish head of his penis even when he was fully erect; now it covered maybe half, and he wasn't touching it, didn't even seem aware of it or the way his body moved in response to Ray and Turnbull's movements. His balls were tight, but not drum-tight; it was easy to see, because they weren't very hairy, only a light soft dusting, something Turnbull loved, and he knew Ray loved too; they were both more typical that way, and Fraser's soft fuzz there, fading quickly to nothing on his almost hairless body, was beautiful to both of them, or perhaps it simply served to keep from hiding Fraser's beauty in general.   
  
Right now, the light slanted across his chest as it illuminated his face, deep sunset-colored and warm, turning his pale ivory skin to a shining gold that gleamed across the lines of his muscles and bones--across his cheekbone, down his face to his chin, down the tendons of his throat in twin lines of light, out over his collarbones and the rounds of his shoulders.   
  
"God," he whispered, almost whimpered, a sound like a real prayer. "You're so beautiful..."  
  
Turnbull moaned, totally unable to handle either Fraser's beauty, the irony of his comment, or the way he was feeling now with Ray, and moved inside Ray, his hands tightening on Ray's shoulders, as he buried his face in the shorter man's neck, having to bend a little to do it. He let out a high, soft keen, and shivered, making himself lift his head again. He didn't want to miss seeing any of this, of them. He loved them so much.  
  
"Touch him," Ray said, gazing into the wide pools of Fraser's eyes, "let me feel him feeling it--he'll feel it deep, I know--"  
  
"Ray," Fraser whispered, and reached out, stroking his hand slowly, tremulously, down Turnbull's back, from his shoulder in a slow, careful arc, feeling with each fingertip as his palm slid over damp skin, and Turnbull wailed, his head thrown back now, shaking all over.  
  
"Oh my God," Ray whimpered, his eyes closing. "I can feel...don't stop, Turnbull, fuck me, Jesus, hard, I wanna feel you deep..."  
  
"If he touches me," Turnbull panted, "if he touches me and I move--"  
  
"Then do, if you want, if it's okay," Ray said, "I want you both. I want Frase after you. I love you. Fraser, touch him, I can feel it too, it's like it's--it's both of us--when he moves, when you touch him--"  
  
"Ray," Fraser cried out suddenly and rolled on his back, gripping the spread with both hands. "I will, just--give me--"  
  
"It's all right," Turnbull whispered, his hips moving too, now, just a little, sliding him in and out of Ray slowly; it wasn't in the same rhythm as Fraser's continuing movement, but it was like it, helpless, impossible to control--would've gone unnoticed, except that it produced such unbelievable, precise, inundating sensation in Ray and Turnbull both. Ray whimpered, pushing back, wanting more, and Turnbull held him securely and pushed in, speeding up. "Here?"  
  
"Higher...tilt back--oh God yeah there right there Jesus there--Fraser *please*--"  
  
Fraser rolled to face them again and there were tears shining in the light through the window, tears in those eyes, slate blue normally, some deeper, unnamed color now. His hand came up and he caressed Turnbull's short hair, his fingers separating and combing, petting his head and down into his neck and shoulder, his arm, back to his shoulder blade to run down his back and up again, around to his other shoulder, as Ray and Turnbull moved inexorably, but Turnbull's movements obviously responding to where and how Fraser was touching him. He stroked Ray's prostate with each movement, and Ray's eyes kept trying to close, but he wouldn't let them.   
  
"Touch where he's in me," Ray panted, and Fraser and Turnbull both groaned and Turnbull's head dropped; he bit his lip or he thought he might've come right then, and then leaned down to sink his teeth carefully into the nape of Ray's neck, as he shivered all over; and he could feel Ray watching the movement of Fraser's arm as he slid his hand to Turnbull's buttocks, caressing there a few moments, and Turnbull couldn't help speeding his rhythm, and Ray answered it, as much as he could, moaning himself, *God*, what he was be feeling, Turnbull knew he couldn't keep this up with his cock rubbing Ray rapidly right where they both needed it inside.  
  
And then he felt Fraser's fingers sliding down, the pressure of them gently over Turnbull's balls, and he all but froze in place for just a moment; then his legs were spreading a little more, and Ray tightened his hamstrings to lift himself a little, lift the place where they were joined, and he felt Fraser's touch right there, right where he was open to Turnbull's cock. Fraser's fingers caressed there gently, deep between and with their bodies, and Turnbull turned his head to see an expression of...wonder, and *love*, just love, he couldn't think of anything else to call it even though something more seemed called for, on Fraser's face; the full red lips pressed together and the dark, glossy head shook slowly back and forth in disbelief. Slateblue eyes shone full in the light--thick, soft lashes glistening with it.   
  
Then Fraser's hand moved up again, but only as far as Turnbull's ass, a couple of fingers lying in the warm, humid cleft as he held tight through Turnbull's helpless keens and rapid pumping, both of which had Ray clinging and groaning and pushing back and coming oh God so hard, yelling with each pulse and groaning between, and Turnbull collapsed, breathing harshly as he pumped deep into Ray.  
  
"I love you," Fraser whispered again, as Turnbull tenderly moved Ray's legs, one at a time, down from his shoulders before he collapsed again, and they both reached for Fraser to pull him close. He moved to them, on a knee and an elbow, into the circle of Ray's left arm and Turnbull's right, and their murmurs of "I love you, Frase," and "Oh, God, I love you too," reached him at the same time as they held him tight against them for those few brief moments.  
  
But Fraser was still panting, still needing, and Turnbull kissed Ray, deep and loving, before he held the condom in place and gently slid free; he kissed his way down Ray's body, stopping to lap a few times at the still-warm fluid smeared across his belly, to kiss his still-firm penis as tenderly as he had his mouth, before shifting the leg Ray had lifted again to let him move to the side, and easing it down.  
  
"Are you sure--"  
  
"*Yeah* I'm sure," Ray whispered, and rolled over to scoot and press his back to Fraser's front. "Turnbull, could you reach the--thanks," he whispered, and took the condom Turnbull handed him, passing it over his shoulder to Fraser.  
  
"If it's--at all uncomfortable--"  
  
"After that? It couldn't be," Ray grinned, and reached to hold Turnbull's hand as he turned his head to kiss Fraser. He bent the leg Turnbull was cradling in both hands and raising for him and wriggled his hips a little, getting comfy, as Turnbull released his leg. "Anytime you're ready, Frase."  
  
"If you're sure..." Fraser was applying the condom, and Turnbull was lying and gazing at them both in loose sprawl, his own position much like Ray's, facing them, as he stroked their hair and faces with his free hand, letting it trail down their bodies, caressing. Right now, who he was, what he was, what was real, what would happen--didn't matter. Right now, the unreal was real. Right now, he could do anything.  
  
"I'm sure. I'm so sure I oh, yeah, that's it, that's nice...that's oh, nice...go on, Frase, do it..." he reached back and rested a hand on Fraser's hip, then slid it back farther to grasp his ass cheek, firmly and gently. "Mmmm...." his eyes closed. "That's good." He sighed, a sound of pure contentment. "Good. Frase...I can feel *you*, I'm not all worried about the fact *I'm* losin' it, I can just feel you..."  
  
Fraser whimpered and his eyes closed, and he began to move with purpose, and Turnbull watched them with fascination and pleasure, knowing he was wearing a very slight smile, on a face that Ray, as he opened his eyes to smile into Turnbull's, had probably never seen more relaxed except when he was asleep. Ray rocked easily with the pace Fraser set. "Mm. Mmm...Turnbull? Can he feel, Frase? That okay?"  
  
"Oh, God--yes--" Fraser grasped Ray tightly around the waist with one arm, but he didn't let that make it impossible for Turnbull to slide his caressing hand down to where Fraser's cock slid out and then home again, over and over, moving them both with the ease of waves on sand. When he felt Turnbull's fingers there, Fraser shivered. "*God*."  
  
"Yeah," Ray agreed, letting his eyes close again, just feeling, feeling. He squeezed the hand Turnbull held and Turnbull moved closer to them, without interfering with the movements Fraser was setting, and kissed Ray's hand softly. Ray made a sound of appreciation and sighed. "Maybe Frase would like that?"  
  
Turnbull released Ray's hand slowly, with a caress, and judging by what he saw, Turnbull knew Ray felt a faltering in the rhythm inside him, but not much of one; just a brief slowing, as Turnbull touched Fraser, too, his face and hair, then taking the hand of the arm that he had extended under Ray's neck without disturbing it--just sliding his fingers into the spaces of Fraser's, squeezing, and kissing the callused fingertips, one after the other, and Ray could feel the answering squeeze from Fraser, in his arm muscles.   
  
"Oh--" Turnbull slid his other hand out of the way as the pace picked up; Turnbull slid a forearm across Ray's hip, resting and gripping a hand on Fraser's ass much as Fraser had on him. Fraser whimpered, and moved faster; Ray used the various anchors they were all providing each other with to hold himself steady, to return the movement, his eyes slitted with a languorous pleasure.  
  
Fraser slowed briefly, then trembled all over and began to thrust frantically, and Turnbull heard himself make a sound like "Oh," but something between pleasure and surprise, and Ray groaned softly, holding steady for Fraser, as he climaxed inside Ray. "Nnngggohhh, *sweet*," Ray murmured, sighing hugely, his belly expanding and relaxing. Turnbull couldn't resist gently running his hand over the sudden curve of it, cupping his fingers for a moment over Ray's soft genitals at the end of the arc, and Ray smiled, relaxed, his eyes still closed.  
  
As Fraser's thrusting slowed, then subsided, he clung tighter to Ray and to Turnbull's hand, pressing his face down into the nape of Ray's neck. He was shaking slightly. "Oh, Ray...Turnbull, I...I'm sorry, I just..."  
  
"It's okay," Ray whispered, "Frase, Frase...c'mon..." he reached back with the hand he'd been bracing with and helped guide Fraser's hand to his own cock and the condom, helping Fraser gently pull himself free; Fraser managed to remove the condom and tie it off, making kind of a long arm to drop it on the floor behind him, before Ray rolled on his back and Turnbull reached to help Fraser, whose eyes were dripping and squeezed shut, his mouth pressed together, over Ray and in between the two of them, where they both moved to press close to him, touching each other gently as well as they stroked and kissed Fraser, his mouth, his face, shoulders, down his body as far as they could reach without releasing their embrace. "It's okay, Frase," Ray whispered, and Fraser could only choke in reply, but he was nodding; he wasn't upset. He was just overcome. And that was okay, because they all were.   
  
Mother preserve him. Turnbull realized--but didn't say aloud-- "Everything is all right now for all of us. The unreal is real right now for all of us."  
  
"I love you so much," Turnbull whispered, and he didn't need to say "I love you both" because they both knew that was what he meant. "Always. I always will."  
  
Ray met his eyes; from his expression, Turnbull realized that had sounded...something, different, significant. But Turnbull only gazed steadily back at him, even though his own gaze was watery, and added "Thank you. For everything. Being. Letting me love you." Fraser turned his head and pressed his face hard into Turnbull's arm. "Love you," he whispered.  
  
"Yeah," Ray said, nodding, smiling. "Yes. I get that. Thank *you*."  
  
Turnbull's smile changed a little, and his head dropped, but he didn't say anything. Instead, he took Fraser's shoulders and folded the other man up tight against him, inviting Ray to press against Fraser's back with insistent tugging, and Ray, laughing softly, obliged him, until eventually Fraser was only sighing softly into Turnbull's neck, and Ray, after more mopping up with the thick Kleenex on the nightstand and placing the box where the other two could get to it easily, for bodily dampness rather higher up than what he'd just been using it for, pulled the sheet and blanket over them all. "How about a little nap?" he wondered. "Don't have to sleep, if you can't, just...be here."  
  
"Yes," Fraser sighed in blissful agreement, probably halfway to unconscious already; Ray exchanged smiles with Turnbull, and snuggled against Fraser's back, sharing his pillow. Turnbull managed to get his arm out from underneath them and folded against himself, the other draped easily over both of them, Ray's across Fraser to rest a hand on Turnbull's side under the covers, as the sun slipped below the horizon.  
  
Fraser slept; Ray *definitely* slept. Turnbull just lay there and felt them both close--not too close, they were all pretty big and elbows and knees would have been a serious problem if they'd stayed pressed close as they'd been after they'd begun to get sleepy, so they'd gradually snuffled and shuffled to a more workable, though still very intimate, distance--but so close he'd never have believed it, before now.   
  
He heard a scrabble and a bonk--uh oh, the door hadn't been shut completely, and Dief was entering. Whether the mutual consensus was that there was room for the sixty pound half-wolf on the bed or not, Turnbull had a feeling he knew what Fraser was going to say about it, especially if he was awakened by said sixty pounds of half wolf landing on him to have to say it.  
  
He was just gearing up to go deal with it when there was a noise and something soft bopped him in the back of the head. He carefully released his hold on his bedmates and turned enough to see.  
  
Dief was standing up with his paws on the bed, tail wagging, tongue lolling, and Heathcliff was lying just next to Turnbull's head.  
  
Turnbull smiled. "You're very kind. I *would* have remembered him, and then I would have had to get up anyway. There'll be something in it for you when they've had a little lie-down; I'll see to it."  
  
Dief didn't bark; he just clapped his jaws shut on his grin and turned, dropping down from the bed, slipping out the narrow opening in the door. Turnbull could just see where his small backpack had been knocked over, but it didn't look like anything else was disturbed. Good. There were a couple of things in there he didn't want scattered.  
  
He reached for the felt packet on the bedtable, tucked it between himself and Heathcliff--who remained silent for the moment--and very gingerly settled his arm back over Fraser and rest a hand on Ray's shoulder, but they were sleeping like rocks. He might as well have been doing the Watusi in the middle of the bed.  
  
Turnbull lay quiet in the last of the sunlight, smiling, and dreamed that he was awake.  
  
***  
  


  
 

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End Requiescat II: Touches, Changes by Blue Champagne 

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